Diary of an Angry ExPilot
by Valtana
Summary: Two years after the war, and life suddenly sucks.  Gotta change everything now. This is my life, recorded as I see it happening.Written in 2 POV. Possible 1x2, 3x4, and ?x5 in later chapters. Rated for mature language and situations.


Disclaimer: I don't own anything. I'm poor, don't ya know? I'm also not making money off of this.

Introduction: Two years after the war, and life suddenly sucks. Gotta change everything now. This is my diary. (Written in 2 POV. Possible 1x2, 3x4, and ?x5 in later chapters. Rated for mature language and situations.) 

I didn't cry till Friday. The man that I loved had left me, and I didn't cry for three whole goddamn days. Why? Why wasn't I torn to pieces over it? Why wasn't I sitting in someone's guest room, crying my eyes out? Why wasn't I in a pair of Pj pants looking like a sniffling pansy?

Why?

Because love happens. Love changes more often than not, and almost never in a good way. Regardless of the true things about life in general, I still wanted to shove a pipe down his throat and make him drown in acid, as it ripped its way out of his insides and left a gaping hole to rival the one in my heart. Wanted him to burn with the pain that I felt to the core of my being.

Even more, I wanted to make him a mute so that he could never insult me with his lies again. How could you do that, huh!? How could you promise someone forever, and then realize that you never loved them? It just didn't make sense! His fucking logic didn't make sense!

Should I explain who he was? I guess so, since other people will be reading this now. "His" name is Jason. He was a soldier on L2. I met him when I took a trip back to the colony to clear my head after the war had ended. I fell in love with him instantly…he had my ankles behind my ears in a month and a half, and was back on a transport back to earth with me two months later. 

I wanted to burn the whole fucking house down to the last dieing ember. I wanted to destroy house that I bought with the money that I had gotten from the war effort and my scrapping business afterwards. What a shit load of cash that had been; and I wanted to burn it all. Every little thing reminded me of him. The color scheme that we had picked out together made me sick to my stomach. The bed made my skin itch, and caused an unpleasant taste to rise in my mouth.

I barely managed to sleep on the couch the first night after he left me. The thought of the…things that had been done here tainted every surface that I could see. I know, I know you might not want to know this…but, if you don't then why the hell are you reading this in the first place?! Anyways…

Every little gift that he had given me out of "love" made me want to grab a match and ignite the whole fucking house. However, I reminded myself that it was my money that had paid for it. It would only give him pleasure to watch it burning on the six o'clock news. I couldn't give him that pleasure, could I?

It had all been nothing but a lie; everything that I had believed for two fucking years had been a pack of lies.

Gunshot wounds didn't hurt me this much! At least my mind could hide me from that kind of pain. And, as long as you didn't lose anything important (you know what I mean…an arm or a leg, get your minds out of the gutter, people!), or turn yourself into a vegetable, battle wounds healed, at least to a degree. Oh no. Not with this one. This shit was permanent. My mind was the tainted part, and my self-esteem had gone up in flames like the good-year blimp in that novel, _Black Sunday_. I couldn't escape it the scars that he had given to me. And, goddamnit, it pissed me off!

Every time the phone rang, I flinched and tried to think of an excuse not to answer it. Why was he even still in town? Why did he still call? How could you be a cold-hearted bastard one morning and then so kind and caring the next? Asking about work, life in general, though I knew he didn't want to hear the real answers.

I talked to him. I made small talk with him, as he expected me to do, anyways. I told him that I was fine. I tried to explain the little things that had made our relationship pleasant. Inside, though, I was screaming:

"HOW CAN YOU LIVE WITH YOURSELF, YOU ASSHOLE?! YOU FUCKING BASTARD, AFTER ALL THIS FUCKING TIME, NOW YOU TELL ME THAT I'M NOT FUCKING GOOD ENOUGH! I FUCKING HATE YOU! WHAT COULD I HAVE DONE DIFFERNETLY TO MAKE MYSELF BETTER FOR YOUR FUCKING EGO?! GO TO HELL! I'LL SEND YOU THERE, IF I CAN! JUST GIVE ME ONE SHOT, AND YOU'RE DEAD BUDDY!"

No such words ever left my lips, of course. I'm too nice remember? Right…moving on…

He did what he did because he "thought it the right thing to do at the time". His life was going in a different direction (the way of the dodo, if I had any say), and I couldn't be a part of it the way that I wanted to anymore. My feelings didn't seem to factor in to his little equation of life.

No.

Did I mention the worst part? He fucking left me for a woman. Left me for a woman that he'd met in town here, and whom he'd been fucking around with while we were together. Yeah. I know. I'm not good enough because I don't have a set of ovaries or a womb to pop kids out for him. Hah.

Fuck that!

Had he ever asked me, I would have adopted kids with him. I always wanted children…I still do, to be honest. I want to be able to give at least one child the life that I never had…the life that I was denied because of my circumstances.

Not going into that today, sorry! Too painful…even for this kind of situation. 

If my feelings weren't enough, he could go take his apology and shove it (not that he had ever apologized or anything). He could just watch while I moved on and found a new life of my own, with better friends, a better job, and most importantly, a better lover.

He had a small cock.

Now, to move on, the only thing standing in my way was…my life. How could I change? I don't know anything but war and Jason. Since both were no longer an option, what was I left with?! How could I make him see?

Oh, shit! I just realized…I've never introduced myself properly. Sorry 'bout that. The name's Duo Maxwell, and this is my ranting, screaming, sobbing, laughing diary. 

In short, love goes to hell every day. There's no need to remind me of that. But, somehow it seems to suck more when it happens to you, ya know? If you don't know, let me fill you in with these simple words – it fucking sucks to get your heart broken.

Don't get me wrong, being on the "ending" side of the equation sucks, too. But at least, then you are in control of the situation. At least you are thinking of your own feelings. Who was looking out for my feelings?! No one. Not Jason, at least. I couldn't exactly safe guard myself, either. It was like a sucker punch to the guts when I wasn't ready for it. Didn't Houdini die that way? I think I remember seeing that somewhere…

Jason was cold when he did it, too. Gave me the excuse of saving my feelings and said that he thought that I would hate him. He thought right, mind you, but that was beside the point. You don't do that to someone! You don't live with them for two years, fuck them every night in their home, promise the moon and stars, and then dump them in a cold and callous way! Basically, it came down to:

"Hey. We're over. Sorry. Gotta go do something. Call you later. Bye."

Hah! Right! And how, pray tell, would you have taken that, reader of mine? I…didn't cry till Friday. I went to work, I came home, I cooked and cleaned just like normal. U even talked to friends. Acted normal and cool about everything that had happened, though the truth was far harsher than that.

I wanted to do something stupid. I still, as it is, plan on it if I can work the plans out. Blow something up, you know. Watch the sparks fly like old times. Hear frightened screams as people run form the wreckage and enjoy myself a good laugh. Maybe I'd blow up his home while he was out at work one day…had to make sure the skank wasn't home first, though. 

This is my introduction (if you want to call it that). Heh. No one will read it. Fuck all of that. This is for me. I heard somewhere ( I could almost swear that I heard it from Quatre, actually) that expressing your feelings makes dealing with them easier. Helps you to put them out there and make sense of them. If no one reads, then so what. This is my diary. This is for me.

Welcome to my well-furnished hell.

(About the cock…he didn't, I'm just angry. He was pretty nice for a white guy, in that respect at least. Could have had a little more muscle, but his smile made u…FUCK YOU! I always go for the pretty assholes. It isn't fair!)


End file.
